 |
| fig.89.90) balladry of ham and the foot |
A field that can be projected to a sufficient depth is a field that's capable of conveying the complexity of all of the information that's less than or equal to the sum of the relationships which define the matrix of said field.... This is, will be for instance Betty, Veronica and mean old Thor. It's also inevitable that Speed Racer will be there too, so let him in damnit. So it goes, leaves now the older keep, door as tight as it needs be. Least of all there's the long walk home, with bald trees and barns all along the way. The houses at the edge of the field are threatened with our passing, the end of us is for sure the end of them as well. Other than this, we'll keep falling apart. We're crying small in the broken snow of March. The angel of our need is a stray, it walks beside the wood winds with their dancing ways but she is compelled by the rut of the road and sleeps with us at night in the ditch.
Sitting across from each other in creaky cafe chairs, the harps burrow into our backs like a form of strategy. The kitchen is drafty today, there's something hiphoppy that's playing from my studio. REM just finished and I turned up the radio on my way out. Montana is reading Terry Eagleton, good/bad utopia, the stuff of danger from which we all must fall, right? Montana is reading when I sit down with a cup of coffee.
We're cold and tired from the sight of even one more day. In such nihilism as this, nothing is sweet news unless it matters not or all is lost as the bear stays naked as the jay bird. Failure, evocative or otherwise is less a result from lacking in the ability to succeed than it is necessary for the component of success to be present as evolution continues in whatever direction it should go. To the extant that we can perceived as either succeeding or of failing, in as much as both of these are described as being very different and we can see still see the ghosts that are sitting at the edges of these two structures. Here it is that we wander around, lost inside of the very stories whose function is to become more lean than they are.
I remember a time when when we would sit around and make shit up. Dallas would come in and make the potatoes in our wide skillet and talk about rifles. Like how the one that Oswald shot with, the Mannlicher rifle had come from a stockpile of rusty crates found outside Flint. Their wood stocks were sourced from someplace in the east. A last stand of old growth trees that used to be surrounded by hemlock, it's now a take away restaurant with weekend karaoke.
Dallas got his own gun by the mail. It came from one of the Carolinas along the salt coast. But his camera's were from New Orleans or Houston. They came from a stoppered up tv shop at the edge of one of those cities. It was a place being run by two old white dudes who practiced their yodeling while he was looking around. They sang Beatle songs, two or three at a time, Help and then Long and Winding Road. They always finished with Girl. It's such a powerful reminder that bad people are just bad people flavored people to begin with.
The old is always getting itself out, leaving behind an effusive mixture of chemicals and spinning parts reminiscent of a yellowing board game. Then the music starts, slowly at first and it seems quiet while the audience settles into their velveteen chairs. Then it becomes apparent that these structures don't really go together, the confluence of their purpose and texture in this situation, they're starting to act in concert, to reinforce a more dynamic force which is emanating outward like a pile of hissing kittens, Satan's purpose mewling.
Comments